


Loyalty to Your Captors

by Marquise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-28
Updated: 2012-04-28
Packaged: 2017-11-04 10:54:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/393046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marquise/pseuds/Marquise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Theon doesn't trust Lord Bolton. Set just before before Theon leaves for the Iron Islands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Loyalty to Your Captors

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sternflammenden](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sternflammenden/gifts).



It was hard not to see the look in Robb’s eyes whenever the Lord of the Dreadfort passed by. But he always maintained his composure, and greeted the man with kingly grace. Whenever Theon asked him about it Robb was frank with him, telling him all of his private worries and fears about Lord Bolton.

It was clear in those moments that Robb found the association more than a little distasteful, but saw no other way around it. It was a type of practicality that Theon could not bring himself to share. It wasn’t, as he only told his king when he was in his cups, the behavior of a Stark.

Whenever he said such a thing Robb would shake his head and smile, and that would be the end of that.

He accepts it, but he does not like it. He knows what kind of a man Bolton is. Robb might find him to be a necessary evil, but Theon never liked the way he spoke to his king or the cold look of his pale eyes. He saw, if Robb didn’t—such was the benefit of not being a Stark.

\----

One night, after he had drunk more wine than was perhaps advisable, he finds himself loitering around the entrance to Lord Bolton’s tent. He paces the worn grass, running though scenarios and replaying the course that had brought him here, his hands shaking.

He had finally resolved not to enter, telling himself his unsteady feet were a warning not to go through, when he heard a chill voice from inside. “State your business.”

He knew he had to act or lose the moment and blundered forward with drunken courage, entering the tent with what he hoped was a disaffected gait.

Lord Bolton was alone, seated at a camp table strewn with documents. The tent was unnerving dark, with only a few bad tallow candles giving off light, and Bolton’s queer pale eyes were almost alarming in the dusk. _I shouldn’t have come here._

“Well?” Bolton did not seem occupied, but everything about his tone suggested that he did not have time to waste on whatever trifling matters Theon needed to discuss.

“My lord,” his mouth was dry and his words tasted like ash on his tongue; still, he went on. “May I ask your intentions in serving Robb Stark?” The words came tumbling out, a mess that did in no way reflect his real desire. But nevertheless, he felt he could breathe easier having spoken them.

Roose Bolton leaned back in his chair at that, and Theon could swear he saw a slight smile on his pale lips—it was cold and cutting and completely without mirth. All his worries about this being a terrible idea returned with force.

“I serve House Stark,” was the reply that came, clipped and official. That might have been enough but he pressed on, “And who do you serve, Greyjoy?”

It could have been an innocent question but wasn’t; the words stung like a slap. Theon stumbled over his answer, all traces of composure gone with the wine and his anger, and Bolton watched, calm as ever.

“Your loyalty to the boy king moves me,” the other man says when he finally finished, nearly breathless. He stands and closes the distance between them and Theon feels as if his back is pressed against the wall.

He’s not a physically imposing man, and that’s the worst part of it. With the exception of his eyes everything about him is so mundane it lends an extra level of unease to his manner. Lord Bolton looks him over, his gaze moving from distaste to acceptance to what looks like pleasure, and Theon hates it.

“I didn’t mean to insult you,” he lies and lays a hand on Theon’s shoulder. His grip is tight and Theon wills himself not to be intimidated. “We do have a common cause, after all. And perhaps we can even be of some use to each other?”

With those last words he adopts a new tone, and for the first time since entering the tent Theon is truly unsure of what to do. There is a degree of fear running through him, as there has all throughout the conversation, but it is overlaid with something darker, something new. Bolton’s hand on his shoulder is firm and controlling and he tries to tell himself that it is not _that_ that he is responding too, how could he?

“Will you remain loyal?” He finds himself asking, voice nearly cracking. It seems oddly idealistic, something to cling to as he embarks down this dark path, but there is an element of need to it that he knows must please Lord Bolton. He needs to know that something more will come of this breech.

Lord Bolton smiles again, a smile in name only, and wraps one hand around the back of Theon’s neck. He doesn’t say a word

\----

He walks back to his tent on unsteady, but not drunken feet, used and dazed. He needs wine, needs to wash out his mouth, needs to cleanse his skin. He thinks of facing Robb when the break their fast in the morning and grows sick the memory of what happened in the tent—of what he took pleasure out of—too much.

\----

The next evening, when Bolton sends for him, he goes without a word.


End file.
